


Chasing the Sun

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bickering, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Series, Queer Sam Week, Schmoop, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six weeks after his second knee surgery, Sam decides to ask Dean a question. He makes breakfast for him but he is distracted by Dean, bickering, and a song. Eventually, Sam gets around to asking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little late in my time zone but it's still day 2 somewhere! 
> 
> this is for M, who is sick and deserves fluff. <3
> 
> day 2 for Queer Sam Week on Tumblr was favorite queer!Sam pairing. obviously, this is my favorite pairing. XD and one of my favorite verses. sigh. so happy. i never mean for these fics to be so long. d'oh. 
> 
> the song here is "chasing the sun" by sara bareilles once more. she just fits. it's a lovely song, very upbeat, but imagine dean singing it a little bit softer, a little slower. mmm. ;w;
> 
> enjoy! <3

Sam can’t cook hash browns.

He doesn’t have the patience or the skill. The package can be followed up to a certain point before he decides to do what he’s always done when making his own meals: leave it up to fate.

Since he’s paranoid about cooking any kind of meat, he burns the sausage links. Better safe than sorry. Eggs are not attempted because Sam can’t use more than two pans at the same time. But he’s got a good spread going on without them anyway; there’s toast, jam, sausage links, hash browns, orange juice, and fancy pants Hawaiian coffee Juana gave him from her trip out there last week. He made it strong enough to burn stomach lining.

Piled onto two plates, breakfast is served and placed onto a tray. The coffee is poured into a favorite mug and situated next to the small glass of orange juice that has become mandatory at every breakfast since a doctor’s appointment revealed high cholesterol. Cheerios have been purchased for that issue, but they have yet to be touched. Sausage links are not the answer, Sam knows he’s breaking a rule here, but he can help make up for it later. Finally, the tray is picked up and carried, minding the squeaky floorboard halfway down the hall. Early this morning, he untangled himself from Dean’s death grip and went for a run. He then stopped by Mrs. Martinez’s, who was already up, and changed out a few light bulbs, swept her front steps, and promised that Dean would be over later to check on the noise her car is making. She gave him a container of cebollitas, then another one with rice, and another with barbeque chicken, and finally, one with yucca her Cuban comadre made last night. He returned home with armfuls of Tupperware and daydreams of lunch.

Carefully pushing open the door to Dean’s room with his foot, Sam wills everything on the tray not to fall off. The spoon that’s hanging by a thread moves itself over, lifting up an inch and twirling around before settling safely next to the plate. These are leftovers, just like the food Mrs. Martinez packed up for him. They aren’t very reliable, because when he uses them, he depletes the source. But a spoon is easy. He can’t do much more than that. Well, that and the nightstands still rattle when they have sex. He doesn’t have control over that; it just happens.

Stepping in, Sam sees that Dean has taken over the entire bed, draping himself over the spot where Sam slept. His mouth is open and he’s snoring away reality, making a happy noise as he smells the coffee.

He’s also sporting a somewhat large morning erection, which is new to Sam since he left this morning. It’s tenting the black boxer briefs Dean has on, creating a thick curve, framed by still muscular thighs. Dean’s middle is a little softer than it used to be, with an inch of proof on it—proof that he’s well-fed, well-taken care of, and amply provided for. Sam may not be the chef of their domain, but he can at least keep their bank account funded. Thinking about their joint bank account makes him happy. It says Sam and Dean Winchester on their cards. Who gets excited about debit cards? Sam does. Right now, however, he’s conflicted. He can set the tray down on the floor and take care of tempting, teasing morning business. But hash browns reheat like shit.

Torn, Sam whines without realizing it. He witnesses the tent respond to his noise. Holy fuck.

By the time Dean wakes up, Sam is white knuckling the breakfast tray and the food is lukewarm. “Perv,” Dean grumbles, palming his erection, scratching at the fine hairs on his lower stomach. “Gimme.” That means fork over the coffee, which Sam does, setting down the tray and trying to tear his focus away from in between Dean’s legs. Nothing has spilled, but the contents have shifted during travel. Sam fusses more than he needs to.

“Quit it,” Dean grumbles, yawning and stretching. He smacks away Sam’s hands and assesses the spread in front of him. “Sammy,” he sighs and scrubs his face. “Baby, how many times am I gonna try and tell you? Are you that tall, do you not hear me from down here? You don’t turn the damn potatoes until they’ve sat in the pan for four minutes.”

Okay, so the potatoes look more like mashed potatoes instead of hash browns, but hold up. Hold the fuck up. Wait. Sam freezes. Dean takes a messy bite out of his toast; crumbs of it tumble into the reddish beard he’s been growing out since after surgery. Sam tried to shave him from bed, but it turned into a series of arguments and that was that. The scruff looks good on Dean anyway. It feels good against Sam’s face, too. But wait. He’s already getting distracted.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sam tries to play it cool. “Say that again.”

Through his toast, Dean mutters, “Wha-huh?” The rest of breakfast is dug into, soggy hash browns included because Winchesters don’t waste food.

“Say what you just said,” Sam repeats, “again.”

“No,” Dean snips with a huff, his nose scrunching.

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“Deaaan.” Sam drags the last part out longer than he intends to, but it’s a habit.

With a frown, Dean reassesses his breakfast tray. “What are you playin’ at?” he asks, as suspicious as he would be in a poker game. “Why am I gettin’ breakfast in bed?” Dean’s eyes go wide. “What happened. Did you take her out? What is it? Fuck, Sam, if you broke off one of the mirrors again…”

“I was thirteen!”

“Yeah, and I’ve been driving since I was eight. That’s no fuckin’ excuse. I keep tellin’ you, you have to wear your fucking glasses when you drive.”

“Excuse… oh, shit no. We are not starting this, Dean.” Sam pauses. “No, you know what, we are. Excuse me for not being trained to drive at the robust age of eight. Excuse me for not having nerves of steel when I was thirteen and dad was yelling at me in the front seat to drive like a man. It must be _so_ difficult to be perfect all the time, Dean.”

Snorting, Dean grabs the handles of the tray and hefts it over to Sam’s side of the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting up,” is huffed while grabbing for his cane. Dean looks up. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Something really mean can be said here. Sam is six foot five and runs three miles every day. Dean refuses to go for a walk around the block, to give up his beer, or to eat at least one vegetarian meal a week no matter how many times Sam tries to sneak him a veggie burger. It’s not that his brother is out of shape, it’s just that he’s set in his ways and his ways are more suited to someone in their mid-twenties instead of someone in their mid-fifties. He’s also fresh out of his second knee surgery, six weeks post-op, and finally able to walk around the house without Sam worrying that he’s going to teeter over. This week they start physical therapy, which Sam will be doing alongside him. His joints aren’t exactly what they were either, so it will at the very least give them something constructive to do together.

Saying something mean and petty will destroy everything. It’ll start a whole new argument and that is the last route Sam wants to take. He takes a deep breath and taps Dean’s forehead, pushing him back into bed.

“Stop it,” he chides and makes sure that the pillow under Dean’s knee hasn’t moved. “Eat your food. Can’t give you a pill unless you finish it.”

Pouting, Dean grouses, “You didn’t cook this right.” Almost ninety percent of the plate is gone.

“I know,” Sam concedes. “That’s why I need you walking and standing for more than ten minutes a day.”

“You miss the maid that bad?”

“I miss the maid fucking me that bad.”

“Perv.” Dean smiles a little. Good. Crisis averted. “So what gives? What stupid penguin suit party are you dragging me to this time?”

Ask Dean about the benefit gala Sam guilted him into attending two years ago and a forty-five minute epic will be told. It was horrible. Sam made him dress up, dance, and be social to his colleagues. There was also not an open bar and the food consisted of appetizers instead of actual dinner. They ate messy Italian beef sandwiches right after, in a little place on the corner of Clark and Sheffield that’s open twenty-four hours.

Sam takes a sip of the now cold coffee. “I know it hurts you to be an adult, but no, no penguin suit party.”

Thrumming his fingers on the tray, Dean narrows his eyes. He looks right at Sam, who has his best poker face on. There’s no way Dean will guess. No way.

“No.”

“Dean!”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I wanted to ask!”

“Whatever it is, _no_.”

“Why do I bother?” Sam sets down the coffee cup and picks up the tray. There’s no use talking to Dean right now. Why did he even want to ask, anyway? Half of this damn house is his; he can do whatever he wants. In an entirely different way than he came in, Sam walks out of Dean’s room. This time he isn’t careful and the things on the tray jostle, clanging together. He doesn’t bother saving the spoon before it falls to the floor. Everything is dumped into the sink.

Surgery was rough for everyone. Dean is not an easy patient to take care of and Sam’s patience tends to wear thin when he feels like he’s ten years old again, being scolded for not knowing how to do things right off the bat. His brother has never been the best at explaining things more than once; if Sam didn’t understand the lesson the way Dean or John were teaching it, he was on his own. He found answers in libraries, through encyclopedia sets he was never allowed to own and microfilm that he flipped through for hours. When they dumpster dove for the hell of it—and sometimes for survival—Sam was the one who fished out nursing textbooks and ripped out pages diagramming the correct way to stitch up wounds or heal burns.

He can hear Dean trying to get out of bed. The cane only goes so far, he still needs a hand.

“Stop,” Sam calls out, hurrying to the room. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“You better be,” Dean hisses, rolling back onto bed, pain all over his face. “Sammy, I… ugh…” He clutches at his thigh, indicating that he moved too much too fast.

Sweeping in, Sam takes over. He grabs the heat pad from the nightstand and a jar of something Mrs. Martinez calls uña del gato. It’s a Mexican version of Ben Gay, but organic, at least that’s what she explained. It’s worked so far. Sam slathers it in his hands, warms it up a little, and applies it around Dean’s knee. As soon as Dean can see that Sam isn’t going to hurt him by mistake, he relaxes and lets Sam’s hands move to the source of the pain. They just took off the bandages last week. It’s still tender.

“Better,” Sam says, concentrating on the movements his hands make, “it’s gonna be better, Dean.”

“Fuck.” Dean covers his eyes with an arm, gripping onto the sheets with his free hand.

“Dean, give it a second, it’s gonna be okay.”

“No,” he croaks out, sniffling, “don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Sound like you’re… you’re small again.”

“…”

“You don’t remember,” his brother murmurs. “You were three. I busted… I busted this knee on the sidewalk and you took that stupid teddy bear dad let you have. You said he was your patient and he didn’t die from his operation, so I could be yours too.” Sam doesn’t remember that bear. It’s probably for the best; John must have tossed it out. Dean lets out a rough laugh. “All you did was lick your hand and touch my knee. It was gross.”

Their childhood sails into the room. As soon as Sam looks up, it vanishes.

Say something, Sam scolds himself. He’s spent six weeks carrying Dean to the bathroom, giving him sponge baths—not as fun as it sounds—and begging Dean to eat something healthy while he recovers. He’s spent six weeks threatening to lock up Dean’s pain pills if he thinks about taking double the dose just to feel better faster. Three weeks of working from home and three weeks of half days, constantly checking his phone when he’s at the office, worrying himself nauseous.

Is it odd to say that he never thought these would be things that happen to him?

There used to be a point in his life where all he wanted was to get away from his family. And now, his family is so much more. Dean placed a curse on his ring when he took it off for surgery, to prevent it getting stolen by a nurse, even though Sam told him he’d hang onto it the entire time Dean was put under. It didn’t help that Dean took pleasure in telling his nurses and the surgeon not to even think about stealing his ring or his underwear.

Twenty-year old Sam didn’t think he’d live to be just shy of fifty, spending these years of his life with another man.

“I can spit in my hand now,” Sam offers softly, wiping his hands on a towel he has floated over from the nightstand. Dean didn’t see that.

“No,” Dean sighs and takes his arm off his eyes. He looks up at the ceiling. Sam wonders what he’s thinking—is it anything like what he was just thinking? “Give me your hand, Sammy.” Without hesitation, his hand is offered. “Nah, not that one. The other.” Sam is a little confused, but he switches out his right hand for his left. Dean’s fingers are a little swollen from the pain meds, so Sam has taken to wearing both of their rings. It makes sense to him.

Familiar fingers trace the delicate bones on Sam’s wrist. They spider up and settle in the middle, over a scar that has long since faded into white from heavenly help and time.

It is _the_ scar.

“It’s a really old city, stuck between the dead and the living.” Dean’s voice is lighter than it usually is. The rub has helped. Sam’s palm is traced. “You said, remember that life is not meant to be wasted. We can always be chasing the sun.” The shape of the sun is drawn. The voice Sam grew up on fills the room, even though it’s quiet. The first thing Dean wants to do outside is play his guitar. It’ll happen. “So fill up your lungs and just run. But always be chasing the sun. All we can do is try and live like we’re still alive.”

They’ve had dinner with other men like them—men who choose to spend their lives with each other. But they never completely fit with them at the table. There’s more between them than their rings. There’s more than this house, than this block, than this city. But this is home, and the center of things. “It’s a really old city, stuck between the dead and the living.” More than blood. Dean takes a deep breath. He shakes his head and smiles. “So I thought to myself, sitting on a graveyard shelf, and the gift of my heartbeat sounds like a symphony, played by a cemetery in the center of Queens.”

No one taught Dean this. He learned it for himself. He lifts Sam’s hand and pulls him forward to kiss the center of his left palm. “You said, remember that life is not meant to be wasted. All we can do… is try. And live like we’re still alive.”

These days, Sam wears the amulet. Dean is insistent that it needs some sun. Sam wears it on his jogs in the morning. He wears it tucked under his work shirts; under his t-shirts when he’s cleaning out the gutters; on his skin when he crawls into bed next to Dean, because lately, he’s been sleeping here instead of his own room across the hall.

He’ll never get over Dean singing.

“Say that again,” Sam asks, lying down again, their hands clasped over Dean’s chest.

After a second of contemplation, Dean relents.

“Baby.” Satisfied, Sam nods and pats Dean’s chest. He hasn’t ever cared what his partners have called him, as long as they’ve been said out of affection. “What did you wanna ask me?”

“What makes you think I was gonna ask you something?”

“Please,” Dean snorts into Sam’s hair, “just spit it out already.”

Sam closes his eyes. They’ve got good things to eat for lunch in a few hours, after what surely will be a lazy nap. He needs to get up in a second, though, and give Dean something for the pain, and probably elevate his knee more. Their first physical therapy appointment is tomorrow at three in the afternoon. That’s plenty of time for Sam to get home from work and tend to the business he was distracted from this morning. Good business. Thick, muscular business.

Distracted once more, he is brought back to the present by a tug to his hair.

So he doesn’t remember that teddy bear. But he remembers what Mrs. Martinez crowed to the entire neighborhood at a party she held for them last year.

“The way he looks at you, and the way you look at him. You have chosen each other—mi altito y mi rubio. You have put nothing and no one before the family you have created between the two of you. You did it all good, for many years now, and for many years to come. You chose family. Y Dios mio, hijitos, that is the point.”

A risk is taken.

Sam basks for one last second in the peace that their lives have become. Now, it’s finally quiet enough to hear Dean sing. It’s calm enough to lie here, chasing the sun.

“I want a dog.”


End file.
